


gonna pluck you right in half

by badwolfgrapesoda



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, but there's no romance here, i promise i ship villaneve, maybe two percent romance, two percent romance and ninety eight percent REVENGE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 16:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15005123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfgrapesoda/pseuds/badwolfgrapesoda
Summary: What happens to Villanelle after the Killing Eve S1 finale. Canon compliant.





	gonna pluck you right in half

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for this fic: murderous thoughts, actual murder, Villanelle bleeding a lot, knives... so pretty par for the course as far as this show is concerned :P  
> There are also mentions of domestic violence. It doesn't actually happen, but that's Villanelle's explanation for how she's been injured, so just a head's up.

Villanelle was trained on a cold, windy island where the sand and the salt matted her hair and stung her eyes. They taught her how to fight, how to disappear, how to treat her injuries – and that’s how she knows that she’s doing everything wrong. _Don't pull the knife out. Keep pressure on the wound. Don't move. Call medical services. Don't trust anyone._

  
She's doing everything wrong, but all of Villanelle's training is spilling out of her, dribbling through her fingers, and all she's left with is this awful pain and anger and hurt pulsing in her gut. Eve is running to the kitchen, her voice and her hair and her hands are so busy and loud, it makes her hurt more. Eve's voice is shrieking at her to stay still, stay calm, but staying still feels too much like trust, and trusting Eve was a mistake, so Villanelle slithers off the bed, hand pressed to her abdomen, her shoes scrabbling on the hard wood floor. For a brief moment she doesn't know if she can get up, and thinks of winter on the island, not being able to feel her frozen fingers, watching the fish she’d caught contorting on the beach, guts shining, eyes bulging, drowning in the sun. She is not going to be a dead fish.

  
She forces herself up, not letting herself pause to get her balance, her survival instinct screaming at her to _movemovemove_ , so she _moves_ , out the apartment door, past the old woman with her sharp bird eyes. The woman is smirking at her and this more than anything makes Villanelle so angry she almost chokes with it, because she doesn’t let people mock her anymore. But she doesn’t have the energy or the time to do anything clever; she just grits her teeth and stumbles down the stairs, her free hand skidding on the guard rail.

  
She has only seconds before Eve comes after her, and she can’t predict anymore what will happen when she does. She’s underestimated badly. She doesn’t have time to call for help, even if there was someone she could call for help; she doesn’t have time to escape. But on the first floor there’s an apartment. The man who lives there is usually out till nightfall and he frequently forgets to lock the door. If she can get there before Eve catches up to her, if the door is unlocked, if she can find a weapon... If, if, if.

  
Villanelle hears muffled shouts from upstairs, and then the unmistakable sound of boots charging after her. She lurches the last few feet to the apartment; leaning against the wall for balance, she tries the door. It opens.

  
She staggers inside, kicking the door shut behind her, hoping desperately that what’s-his-name still keeps his knife block on the end of the kitchen counter near the hall. He does. She grabs one with shaking fingers, pushing away from the wall, and the room suddenly tilts like she's on a roller coaster. Somehow, she manages not to drop the knife on her foot.

  
Villanelle’s breathing is loud in her ears, harsh little wheeze-sobs that go _her, her, her_. Eve is thundering down the stairs now, Eve is going to see the trail of blood on the stairs, on the door, and then she's going to open the door and she'll see Villanelle and say "sorry sorry sorry please I didn't mean it" and Villanelle will-

  
Eve's footsteps continue out into the street, growing fainter and fainter until they fade away completely. Where is she going? Villanelle had to have left a trail; a moron could follow it. She braces her back against the wall, clutching the knife. Minutes go by. Slowly, she begins to relax a little. Eve isn't coming back, and if she is... it's becoming less important than the fact that she's still bleeding. She wants to get Eve a lot, but not more than she wants to live.

  
Villanelle makes her careful, painful way down the hallway, nudging each door open with her foot to find the bathroom. She fights against the way the hallway seems to be pitching up and down like a ship in a squall; she _will not_ pass out now. The bathroom is behind the third door.

  
She opens the cupboard doors, ripping out boxes of cleaning supplies, wart cream, toothpaste, condoms, more wart cream, Jesus – and a dusty First Aid kit right at the back. Villanelle fumbles it open, kicking the contents of the cupboard across the floor so she can sink to the floor. She’s so tired, and that’s bad, but she doesn’t have the energy to waste on caring.

  
There’s a couple of bandages in the kit, but she needs to clean the wound first, and there’s only a dinky little tube of antiseptic cream. Then her gaze falls on a bottle of vinegar next to the soap. It’ll have to do. She pushes her shirt up to her bra and twists the cap off the vinegar. She doesn’t really know how much to put on, so she just pours it over her hands in a half-hearted attempt to clean them, then soaks a washcloth with it and dabs at her stomach. When she touches the wound, the pain spikes so sharply that black spots dance across her vision. _Careful_.

  
She’s still bleeding sluggishly. Shuffling awkwardly, not letting the cloth touch the grimy floor, Villanelle lies down on her back and wipes the wound again, her mouth filling with nausea-fuelled saliva. She does the best she can, but since it’s still bleeding she can’t really get it completely clean. In the end, she just pours more vinegar over her stomach, biting her sleeve and whimpering in pain, then slaps a wad of padding and a bandage over it. She should do more, try and stitch herself up, or find a doctor, or just get out of the fucking building, but she’s so tired and she doesn’t think she can get up again. If she just rests for five minutes, maybe she’ll feel better.

*

“Mother of God!”

  
Villanelle jolts. As soon as she moves her abdomen erupts with pain. She also has a pounding headache. There’s someone standing in the bathroom doorway – the owner of the apartment. She thinks his name is Harry something. Fuck.

  
He steps towards her and Villanelle flinches, her hand scrabbling for something she can use as a weapon.

  
“I have a gun!” she yells, before registering that she doesn’t. She must’ve dropped it on the stairs somewhere. _Stupid!_ Even if it was empty, she could’ve threatened him with it.

  
“Hey, hey, it’s okay!” Harry holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Who did this to you?” His eyes widen as they flick to her stomach and take in the full extent of her injuries.

  
“Holy shit – are you okay – no, Jesus, of course you’re not okay. I’m gonna call a hospital.”

  
“No!” Villanelle tries to push herself up again, racking her brain for something that will sound plausible. “I – my boyfriend tried to kill me. He is very influential. His people are looking for me.” She pauses for effect, letting his gaze linger on her wet eyes and bruised face. “If I go to a hospital or the police, he will find me. I just need to hide for a little while.”

  
Harry shifts on his feet for a couple of seconds, obviously conflicted, before letting out a long sigh that seems to cave in his chest.

  
“Fine,” he says. “Okay. Fuck.”

  
“Thank you, Harry,” Villanelle says.

  
He shoots her an odd look. “My name is Henry.”

  
Whoops.

  
Henry runs a hand through his messy hair. “Okay. Stay here. I know someone who can help you – just don’t move.”

  
He turns to leave, then catches himself and asks quite awkwardly, as though he’s talking to a neighbour who’s turned up for a chat, “Er… can I get you anything? Tea? A cushion? I don’t know if I’m supposed to move you.”

  
Villanelle resists the urge to throw something at him. “A cushion would be lovely, thank you.”

  
He disappears from the doorway, then reappears with an off white cushion, propping it behind her head. It’s the first time he’s touched her; he cradles her head away from the floor like she’s a particularly breakable china doll.

  
“Okay. I’ll be right back.” Henry dusts off his hands and moves away. “Please don’t die in my bathroom.”

  
Villanelle stares at him, and he cringes. “Uh…bad joke.”

  
Then he’s out of her line of sight; she can hear him hurrying out of the apartment and shutting the door, hard enough to slam.

*

Villanelle drifts in and out of consciousness. She doesn’t really know if it’s because she’s bleeding out underneath her slapdash bandage, or because she’s really bored. She’s in pain and she’s so bored. She tries counting things – sheep, the ceiling tiles – but she can’t concentrate.

  
It feels like she might be drifting into sleep proper when she hears the front door close, then voices and footsteps drifting towards her.

  
“Here’s the patient,” Henry says, poking his head round the door. He looks like he’s in a good mood, like he’s convinced himself that the situation isn’t as weird and bad as he originally thought, but he quickly sobers again and clears his throat.

  
“This is my friend Kate. She’s a doctor.”

  
Kate bustles into the room. She looks frazzled; her shirt is on inside out and her unbrushed hair is sticking out in an auburn halo, but she seems unfazed at being called to treat a strange bleeding woman in her friend’s apartment.

  
“Right then, let’s have a look.”

  
She sets down her bag and pulls on a pair of sterile gloves, then gently pulls back Villanelle’s bandaging, which is soaking and heavy with blood. Villanelle can’t tell if it’s all new or if she just did a really shitty job cleaning herself. Kate blows out a long breath.

  
“Okay, you’d better lie down. Have you taken anything for the pain?”

  
“No.”

  
“My gloves are... Henry, can you-” Kate waves vaguely in the direction of her bag.

  
“What? O-oh, right.”

  
Henry stumbles over to the oversized bag and rummages through it. “What am I looking for?”

  
“Acetaminophen or Ibuprofène,” Kate says distractedly. “And I need the bottle of antiseptic, sterile swabs, and the bandages.”

  
Henry hands them over. Kate tips a couple of pills into her palm and gives them to Villanelle, then rips open a packet of swabs and clinically wipes at Villanelle’s abdomen. Villanelle drops the pills into her mouth and dry swallows them. They feel hard and chalky on her tongue.

  
“I won’t wait for them to kick in, sorry,” Kate says, not sounding particularly sorry. “We need to get this cleaned up so I can see how bad it is.”

  
Villanelle doesn’t bother to reply. She lies stiff as a log on the cold floor while Kate cleans the blood off her stomach.

  
“It’s deep, but not too wide,” Kate notes, sounding pleased. “Your boyfriend didn’t wiggle around much. That’s good. I don’t think anything very important’s been hit. And from what I can tell, it’s pretty clean.”

  
She sits back on her heels, thinking for a moment.

  
“I’m uncomfortable closing the wound without more information, but without better tools…” She raises one shoulder, then drops it again. “You’re sure you won’t let me take you to a hospital, a medical centre-”

  
“No!” Villanelle says vehemently. She struggles to sit up and a wave of pain hits her.

  
“Okay, okay, take it easy!” Kate backs off, holding her hands up in defeat. “I’ll stitch you up then, but I’ll have to come check on you in a couple of days to make sure nothing’s going wrong. You can stay with Henry.”

  
“What?” Henry and Villanelle peer at her with identical shocked expressions.

  
“I’m meant to be having Emma and Ivan over tomorrow night!” Henry complains.

  
“Well, you should’ve thought of that before you decided to let a bleeding woman set up camp in your bathroom!”

  
“I didn’t exactly have much of a choice!”

  
“I have to leave,” Villanelle interrupts. “My boyfriend will search this building.”

  
She doesn’t really know if Eve will come back, or if she’ll send other people here, but now that Villanelle has had a little time to think, she doesn’t want to be here just in case. She could probably overpower Eve if she had to, but at what cost to herself? She’s in no hurry to die, and right now she can barely move without feeling like a horse has kicked her in the gut. It makes much more sense to lay low until she’s less vulnerable.

  
“How much influence does this guy have?” Kate groans.

  
“He works for the government,” Villanelle says vaguely.

  
“Right.” Kate strips off her gloves with a loud snap and rifles through her bag of tricks, pulling out a couple of boxes with the air of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. She puts on a fresh pair of gloves and opens what looks like a sewing kit. “I’m going to close the wound now. It might hurt a bit. Are you a screamer?”

  
“Depends how good she is,” Villanelle says cheekily.

  
The doctor doesn’t seem to appreciate the joke. She casts around the room and yanks a hand towel from the hanging ring next to the sink, handing it to Villanelle with a brusque, “Bite on that if you’re going to be loud.”

  
Villanelle takes the cloth and puts in her mouth obediently. It smells and tastes of musty sweat. Kate pushes the needle through her skin and Villanelle bites down so savagely that she catches her lip between her teeth. Blood leaks onto her tongue. She closes her eyes and pretends her incisors are penetrating one of Eve’s awful sweaters, straight through the fabric and into her flesh. Maybe the meat of her shoulder, just where it meets her neck. How Eve would scream.

  
“Finished,” Kate says, snipping through the end of the thread with a small pair of scissors. They look sharp. Villanelle wonders if she can palm them for later. Her abdomen is throbbing. The painkillers she took weren’t very strong.

  
“Where’s Henry?” she asks, as Kate puts a clean bandage over her stomach and seals it with tape.

  
“He had to go throw up,” Kate says dryly. “I think he was bothered more than you.”

Her tone is light, but there’s something shrewd and calculating at the corner of her mouth. Villanelle watches it quiver and vanish into Kate’s face, like displaced water smoothing and stilling.

  
“Maybe you should come back with me,” Kate continues, as if the idea has only just occurred to her. “Just for a few days. That way you’ll be safe and I can keep an eye on you.” She falters. “On the stitches, I mean.”

  
Something cold shoots through Villanelle’s spine. “Yes, I know what you meant.” _And I’ll be keeping an eye on you._

  
Kate scoots back a little, begins meticulously repacking her bag. “My car is out the front,” she says. “If we help you up, do you think you can walk out there? Or, I have a wheelchair in the boot…”

  
“I can walk,” Villanelle says quickly.

  
Kate calls out to Henry and he shuffles in, looking slightly sick.

  
“I’m taking her with me,” Kate explains. “I need your help to get her out to the car.”

  
They curve their arms under Villanelle’s armpits and heave her to her feet. They’re obviously trying to be gentle but it still feels like she’s being gored by a wild boar. Villanelle sucks in air through her nose and immediately regrets it; Henry’s face is too close and his breath smells like vomit, which doesn’t make her feel any better.

  
Every step is a struggle. Villanelle is practically being carried by the time they reach the street; she’s tripping over her own feet, head lolling like a drunk’s.

  
“Just a little further,” Kate gasps into her ear, breathing heavily. Villanelle doesn’t respond; she can’t concentrate on anything other than trying to propel herself forward.

  
They reach the car. There’s a brief, awkward struggle while they fumble with keeping Villanelle upright and opening the door to the backseat, and then Villanelle is inside – it’s more of a collapse than actually sitting down, but she’s beyond caring. She closes her eyes while Henry and Kate make small talk, then she feels the slam of the driver door and the car hums to life. It sounds smooth and fast, the kind of thing she’d usually enjoy.

  
She either falls asleep or passes out during the drive.

*

Someone’s touching her neck, pressing their fingers to her pulse. People don’t usually touch her so gently. _Eve_ , Villanelle thinks, and then she wakes up and remembers.

  
“So you’re not dead then,” Kate says. “Good. That would’ve been awkward to explain.” She rolls something into view – the foldout wheelchair. “Come on. I can’t carry you on my own.”

  
Villanelle is too tired to protest. She lets herself be helped into the chair, and Kate locks the car and pushes her, with some effort, across the uneven ground. It looks like they’ve left the city. There are only a few detached houses, and no street lamps as far as she can tell. She’s not sure yet if being so isolated is good or bad.

  
“You live pretty far away,” she comments, wincing as Kate steers her over a particularly large bump.

  
“I’m around people all day,” Kate shrugs. “It’s nice to get some privacy when I’m not at work.”

  
As they enter the house, Kate flicks on a few lights, illuminating a tastefully decorated, if a bit claustrophobic, hallway with a few rooms branching off it.

  
“There’s a spare room but it’s upstairs. I’ll put you on the lounge for now,” Kate decides.  
The wheelchair is a bit rusty and it squeals in dissent at being dragged across the carpet, leaving muddy tracks. Neither one of them mentions it.

  
Villanelle is left on the lounge with a big pile of scratchy blankets and cushions. She feels like she should be doing something, scoping out the house or figuring out how to contact someone, or if there’s anyone she can contact, but she’s so tired that her head feels like it’s been filled with thick, cold honey. Kate brings her some leftovers from the fridge, and some more pills to swallow, and then Villanelle is curled up under the blankets, her thoughts bobbing away, untethered…

*

  
When she wakes up, it’s light outside. There’s a folded piece of paper on the low table next to her, along with some more pills, bottled water, and a handful of what look like protein bars. Villanelle wriggles to the edge of the lounge and manages to snag the note without sitting up. It’s written in a large, loopy scrawl, and explains that Kate has gone to work and will be back later. She’s left a walking frame at the foot of the lounge in case Villanelle needs to get up to go to the bathroom.

  
Villanelle scrunched up the note and lets it drop to the floor. She’s bored and cranky and in pain, her least favourite combination. There’s no way of knowing what time it is, but it has to be about 24 hours since she was stabbed. She wonders what Eve is doing. Is she looking for Villanelle? Does she feel bad?

  
Villanelle has never felt bad about hurting people, but she thinks that Eve probably does. She hopes it hurts her so badly that Eve thinks she’s having a heart attack. Villanelle smiles a little at the thought of Eve writhing on the floor, like a worm on the end of a hook. The daydream amuses her for a little while, then she abandons it and looks around for something else to entertain her.

  
The room is plainly furnished; it looks like Kate doesn’t use it much. There’s a few large armchairs, an old TV with a big crack in the screen, and 3 towering bookcases stuffed with what appears to be mostly medical textbooks.

  
Villanelle groans and kicks a cushion, then immediately regrets it as sharp pain shoots through her abdomen. She bites down hard on her hand in frustration. She can predict a lot of lying completely still in her future.

  
For the next couple of hours, she watches the light change outside the French doors. Kate has a very nice backyard, although apparently she doesn’t take care of it. It’s strewn with old leaves, small branches and various other detritus. The most exciting thing that happens the whole afternoon is when a small white bird with pretty blue markings comes to drink at the ornate birdbath and ends up falling into the water.

  
Villanelle is beginning to contemplate the pros and cons of auto-cannibalism when she hears the distinctive sound of a key being inserted into a lock. The front door closes quietly and Kate shuffles around in the hallway for a few minutes, steeling herself to go deal with her houseguest. Finally she steps into view, still wearing her coat, her nose and cheeks pink from the chilling wind.

  
“How are you feeling?” she asks awkwardly.

  
“Like I’ve been stabbed in the guts,” Villanelle quips, craning her neck to maintain eye contact with the other woman.

  
Kate rolls her eyes, the tension broken. “I’m just going to freshen up and then your dressings need to be changed. Have you been to the bathroom yet?”

  
She’s already left the room, tossing the question over her shoulder, so Villanelle doesn’t bother to dignify it with a reply.

  
When Kate returns a few minutes later, her hair has been scraped back into a messy bun and she’s wearing brown slippers, her medical bag slung over one shoulder.

  
“What happened to your television?” Villanelle asks, as Kate peels back her bandage.

  
“The signal’s really bad out here. I got sick of it,” Kate says absentmindedly. “Excellent, you haven’t managed to break any stitches yet.”

  
Villanelle eyes her curiously, but Kate doesn’t elaborate any further. She finishes redressing Villanelle’s stomach in silence, brow furrowed. Villanelle suspects she’s hit a nerve.

  
In the evening, Kate brings more food and medication. Even sitting up to eat makes Villanelle exhausted, and that makes her annoyed. She’s too tired to be properly angry.

  
Kate had been perched on one of the armchairs, flicking through sheafs of paper dense with text, but the third time Villanelle wrenches herself back from sleep, she gets up and turns the lights off.

  
“I want books tomorrow,” Villanelle mumbles, just as Kate’s about to go upstairs. “I didn’t have anything to do.”

  
“Yes, milady,” Kate says dryly.

*

When Villanelle wakes up her mouth feels like someone’s been pouring sand into it all night. She shuffles over to the table and guzzles water. There’s an untidy stack of books next to the snacks, with a thick volume titled ‘The Complete Guide to Modern Etiquette’ placed pointedly on top. Villanelle edges it off the stack with her finger until it topples onto the floor with a loud thump.

  
Her other choices are a couple of unwieldy medical texts and some well thumbed romance novels, the kind that have vaguely ‘exotic looking’ men riding horses on the cover.

  
Throughout the day, Villanelle alternates between failing to be interested in the ‘untamed stallion’ bucking in the trousers of Roberto the horse trainer, staring out the window, and passing out from sheer boredom. Lying still all the time is awful.

  
For lack of anything else interesting outside, her eyes keep being drawn back to the bird fountain. A few small birds hop around it, but the distinctive blue and white bird from yesterday doesn’t come. Perhaps it got eaten.

*

After a few days on the lounge, Villanelle is mobile enough to move to the guest room upstairs, and after a few days in the guest room, she stops counting, mostly because it’s really depressing and pointless. She can slowly – slowly – feel herself healing. She gets tired less often, and when she finishes the first stack of books, she manages to hobble down to the bookcases by herself and pick out a few more that make her want to shoot herself slightly less.

  
Sometimes she dreams about Eve. Villanelle doesn’t usually dream – she does all the things other people dream about in real life – but now she’s not doing much of anything, and when she closes her eyes, her brain conjures up a nightmare world where she wanders around tripping over thick, dark hair that coils around her ankles and smells of blood. Once she dreams that Eve comes and pulls her out from underneath the hair and kisses her, but when Villanelle kisses her back, Eve’s tongue is a knife and it cuts her mouth wide open. She wakes up sweating and shaking.

  
During the week, Kate is always working, but when she’s at home she doesn’t seem to want to leave Villanelle by herself. At first Villanelle thinks it’s a doctor thing, but she’s beginning to suspect that Kate is just waiting to catch her in a lie, narrowing her eyes and chewing her lips as she tries to ferret out “the real story”.

  
One night she’d actually come out and said, “You can tell me the truth, you know,” and gone off about resources for abused women and police protection. From the questions she’s asking, Kate seems to have assumed that Villanelle hurt or killed her ‘boyfriend’ in self defence and is too afraid to tell anyone about it. Maybe it would be easier to just go along with that story, but the more Villanelle says, the more Kate digs, and it’s dangerous to let it get too complicated. Villanelle never has to lie for this long, under such close scrutiny. It’s making her jumpy.

  
The next time Kate goes to work, Villanelle hauls herself out of bed and explores the house. She forces herself to go slowly and sit down when she gets tired. By the time she’s finished, she’s swaying with fatigue, but she has a much better idea of where the possible weapons are (the Japanese knives are a nice surprise), the location of the landline (in the kitchen), and what’s in Kate’s wardrobe (everything is terrible and she wants to throw all the clothes into the wood stove).

  
The information makes her feel much more relaxed. She drifts off to sleep watching the birds from her bedroom window. The pretty blue and white one is back, and it doesn’t like to share food. There’s birdseed in a sculpted stone bowl on top of the birdbath and it keeps chasing all the little brown finches away from it.

  
As soon as she feels well enough, Villanelle starts spending more time outside. At first she just walks around the garden, but soon enough she’s shuffle-running through the country in her borrowed Wellington boots, the fog clinging to her body and mind lifting at last. It feels good and clean. She’s not planning on letting Kate see how much she’s recovered, more out of habit than for any justifiable reason, but Kate catches her stomping back to the house, her sense of time caught off guard by the lengthening days.

  
“You’re better,” Kate says, looking her up and down, and Villanelle again has that feeling of seeing another, slyer person peering out through her eyes.

  
“Yes,” Villanelle says, wary and annoyed at being found out. She steps out of the boots and pads through the house in her socks to wash up. She wets her hands under the sink and rubs at her sweaty face. She needs to leave soon, she realises. Being here is making her feel like a dull knife sitting on an abandoned workbench. She wants to be sharpened.

  
When she leaves the bathroom, Kate is spooning leftovers from a saucepan into two bowls. They both sit down at the kitchen table. Villanelle eats quickly, trying to escape the conversation she can see bearing down on her, but before she’s halfway through the meal Kate says, “I’ve been researching crisis centres nearby.”

  
Villanelle nearly chokes. She swallows firmly and manages not to cough. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

  
“You don’t have to ask.” Kate points her fork at Villanelle, as though she’s a teacher imparting an important life lesson. “I’m not just going to abandon you. I know you’re scared, but you can’t hide here forever.”

  
“If I’m a bother, I can just leave,” Villanelle says sullenly.

  
“That’s not the point,” Kate argues. She seems to realise she’s waving her fork around and puts it down with a clatter. “Look, the point is…the point is…”

  
Villanelle takes the opportunity to shovel more pasta into her mouth.

  
“The point is that if you did…something…in self defence, there are people who can help you,” Kate finishes finally. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m kicking you out, but I’m not one of those people. I’m just a doctor. You’re much better off seeing someone who actually knows what they’re doing, and of course I’ll support you. I’ll take you myself, and I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

  
Villanelle can sense the trap descending on her. Kate’s too involved for Villanelle to try and fob her off, but the longer they stay together, the harder it’ll be to keep holes from being poked in her story.

  
Kate’s reached the end of her usefulness.

  
“I understand,” Villanelle says, sliding her arm across the table and patting Kate’s hand. “You’re completely right. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

  
Kate looks relieved. She returns Villanelle’s smile easily and goes on eating, the matter seemingly resolved.

  
Villanelle finishes her meal quietly. Her eyes flick to the magnetic board across the room, with its neat display of decorative knives, and she feels a familiar excitement.

*

Villanelle doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but her body is still healing, and her eyes slide closed as soon as she lies down.

  
She’s watching the blue and white bird from Kate’s garden through a pair of binoculars. The bird hops from branch to branch, then flutters up into the sky and looks back at her with human intelligence. Villanelle knows, with the kind of absolute surety found in dreams, that the bird is Eve, which means Eve has known where she is this whole time, and, Villanelle thinks with dawning anger, she hasn’t even cared enough to come finish what she started.

  
Villanelle clenches her fists and the binoculars fold like origami under the pressure, becoming an old fashioned crossbow. She fires bolt after bolt, but they whizz harmlessly past bird-Eve, who opens her beak and laughs and laughs and starts to dive towards – _her face_.

  
Someone is touching her face.

  
Villanelle erupts into consciousness, twisting like an eel. Her hands and knees burn as they hit the hard floor, her fingers tangling in something soft. Someone is yelling, or both of them are yelling-

  
“I’m not Eve!” Kate shrieks.

  
Villanelle feels logic return to her. Kate was touching her, she’s in Kate’s house, but then…

  
“How do you know Eve?” she asks.

  
Kate tries to sit up, but Villanelle’s still trapping her in a cage of limbs. “I- I don’t. You were saying it in your sleep. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve tried to wake you up-”

  
Villanelle realises it has to be now. It’s a shame; she really did want to try out those knives, but Kate will be too rattled for the rest of the night, and tomorrow they’ll go to the crisis centre. Oh well.

  
“It won’t be fun for me either,” she says, as much of an apology as she’s ever given, and her hands close around Kate’s throat. She sees Kate’s pupils bloom in soft animal panic. For a moment they’re still. Then Kate jackknifes under her, and Villanelle has to pin her down with her knees to keep her from struggling too much. Kate keeps trying to scream, to get an elbow or a fist into Villanelle’s injured stomach, but soon her movements turn to gentle little pats and whimpers, and then her gaze folds inward and she’s gone. Villanelle sits back on her heels, annoyed. Despite her best efforts, she’d inevitably been jostled, and her wound is aching. She pulls her top up and squints down at herself, but in the darkness she can’t see any damage. She gets up and stands at the window, thinking for a few minutes. Then she goes upstairs, gets into Kate’s bed, which is _much_ more comfortable than the guest bed, and immediately falls back asleep.

*

Villanelle wakes up revitalised. She stretches in the big bed, letting the morning sunlight warm her body. She pads downstairs, noting with pleasure that she’s not too sore from last night.

  
Kate’s body is spreadeagled at the foot of the lounge, her face blue and bulging. Villanelle looks into her bloodshot eyes disinterestedly, then goes to make herself coffee in the very nice coffee machine.

  
While it’s is brewing, she calculates the time in England. Too early, she thinks. Better to wait a little longer, just to be safe.

  
Villanelle drags one of the kitchen chairs outside and drinks her coffee in her bare feet. It probably rained a little in the night; the grass is dewy.

  
She’s in a very good mood; it feels as though a great weight has been lifted from her shoulders. People can be fun sometimes, but on the whole they’re just too much stress to justify having around. She’d forgotten that for a while.

  
After a while, she goes back inside and checks the time again. _Yes_ , she thinks, and a little thrill shoots through her.

  
She picks up the phone and dials, wondering what she will say - and what _she_ will say. She wonders whether to even bother disguising her voice, or if Eve will know it’s her. She thinks she wants Eve to know.

  
The phone connects, and Villanelle opens her mouth to say “Hello, Eve” but before she can get the words out, a voice says, tripping over itself in its worry, “Hello? Eve?” The husband.

  
Oh.

  
“That’s my line,” Villanelle says, without meaning to, without remembering to disguise her voice. Oh well. She doesn’t think he’ll know it.

  
“Who’s this?” he says suspiciously (she’s trying to remember his name. Milo? Nemo? Niko).

  
“My name is Natalie,” Villanelle lies smoothly. “I used to work with Eve. We were supposed to meet yesterday for lunch but she never showed up.”

  
“Well, if she’s made plans with anyone, that’s news to me,” Niko says, sounding angry. “No one’s heard from her for weeks. She went overseas for this work thing and never came back.”

  
Oh. _Oh_.

  
Villanelle doesn’t know what to feel. She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to say she’s feeling.

  
“How...concerning,” she says at last. There’s a long pause.

  
“H-has Eve contacted you?” Niko asks at last.

  
“No,” Villanelle says. “We planned this a couple of months ago.”

  
She’s done with him now, anxious to get off the phone and out of here. She manages to sound worried and sympathetic while she makes Niko promise to let her know if Eve comes home.

  
“Oh!” she remembers. “I’m borrowing this phone; I lost mine. I’ll call you back later on my new number.”

  
“Okay,” Niko says. There’s an undercurrent of something fragile in his voice. He sounds...lost? Perhaps that’s what it is.

  
He promises again to call if he hears from Eve.

  
“And you’ll do the same?” he asks, which doesn’t make sense, but Villanelle says she will anyway. After she hangs up the phone, she leans against the counter and thinks. So. Eve hasn’t gone home, and no one knows where she is. That had thrown her. For a few hours, everything had been clear and uncomplicated, and now it’s all messy again. Now she has to make a decision.

  
The way Villanelle sees it, she has two choices. She can go after Eve, throw herself back into all that mess and confusion. Or she can just walk away. Eve might still be after her, but there’s only so far a desk jockey like her can get without resources. Villanelle isn’t sure if going back to the Twelve is a viable option, but she’s survived without them before and she can again. Maybe, she muses with a grin, she can try and find their competitors.

  
That option definitely has its perks. But something inside her feels unsatisfied at the thought of it. Eve is the most exciting thing that’s happened to her in ages; she doesn’t want to stop now. Besides, there’s a big part of her that revolts at the idea of running for the hills like a little baby.

  
Whatever she decides, she can’t stay here. People will come and look for Kate, and sooner or later than that (most likely sooner), she’ll start to smell.

  
Villanelle jogs back upstairs and showers before putting on some of the least offensive items from Kate’s closet, then systematically goes through the house and lays out anything useful, mostly cash and the contents of Kate’s medical bag. She also takes a foldable penknife from one of the kitchen drawers, but reluctantly leaves the Japanese cooking knives. They’d be too hard to carry with her. She’s lacing her boots up in the kitchen when she notices the blue and white bird - the Eve-bird from her dream - land in front of the window, practically parading. It hops forward a little and pecks at something on the ground. Villanelle is about to turn away when it happens, so quick that she could’ve missed it in the blink of an eye.

  
The hawk plummets from the sky, beautiful and glorious, snatching up the blue and white bird, dashing its little head against the ground and exploding up into the clouds again, all in less than a couple of seconds.

  
Villanelle tears open the door and runs out onto the grass, squinting into the sun to try and spot the bird of prey. It’s already risen so high that it’s barely visible, a tiny dark dot against the blue sky. It circles overhead a couple of times, then flies off with a piercing screech. Villanelle screams back at it, her body trembling with a fierce, indescribable joy, her arms flung out.

  
After a few moments, the energy drains out of her and she feels her body sag, the after effects still thrumming through her bloodstream.

  
As the hawk disappears from sight, it takes all of Villanelle’s doubts with it. It’s as though she’s been immersed in an ice bath and made new again. This is how she’s meant to be. She’s a hawk and a hurricane and she’s _Villanelle_ , and she’s not going to stop, not ever. And she’s going to destroy Eve, along with anyone else in her path.

  
Head held high, eyes bright, she returns to the house and collects her bag, slinging it over her shoulder and walking out without looking back. She leaves the front door open.

*

The phone rings, but there’s no one around to hear it. It rings and rings, then finally goes through to the answering machine. The person on the other end of the line stutters a little, as though she hadn’t planned what to say, and then she blurts out, “Listen, I know it’s you, asshole! Leave him alone.”

  
There’s a short pause. Her voice softens.

  
“Oksana? Just stay where you are, okay? I’m coming to find you.”

  
Another pause, longer this time.

  
“Come on, I know you’re there! Pick up the damn phone! Villanelle-”

  
The line cuts off.

**Author's Note:**

> Take a shot every time Villanelle gets annoyed/ tired


End file.
